


Ghosts of None the Wiser

by sciencefictioness



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Amputation, Blood and Injury, Drug Use, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Trans John Silver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28549119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: He doesn’t think to wonder where it came from; why it is Flint, and not Howell, who presses the end of a pipe to his lips and tells him to breathe.  It will make sense later, but in that moment, there are no thoughts in his head that are not red and loud and shaking.  His leg is gone, but it still throbs with every beat of his heart.  He curls toes that are not there.  Thinks about his body sinking to the bottom of the ocean, flesh picked down to the bone, left drifting forlorn across the sand.  Thinks that he will always be in two places, now.Thinks that some part of him will always be drowning.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver, Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 11
Kudos: 57





	Ghosts of None the Wiser

**Author's Note:**

  * For [besselfcn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/gifts).



> Hello lads, we lived through a plague year and I got a black sails tattoo and this is just how we're doing things now, falling into multiple fandoms where the media is set in 1700 and 1800s. Anyway please enjoy!

He doesn’t think to wonder where it came from; why it is Flint, and not Howell, who presses the end of a pipe to his lips and tells him to breathe. It will make sense later, but in that moment, there are no thoughts in his head that are not red and loud and shaking. His leg is gone, but it still throbs with every beat of his heart. He curls toes that are not there. Thinks about his body sinking to the bottom of the ocean, flesh picked down to the bone, left drifting forlorn across the sand. Thinks that he will always be in two places, now.

Thinks that some part of him will always be drowning.

John is in agony, and there is no amount of whiskey or rum that will ease it. The smoke is harsh— he’s only smoked tobacco once or twice, and opium is worse; thicker, like he is pulling something liquid into his lungs. He coughs, and Flint cups his jaw,  _ shhhh, easy now,  _ and coaxes him into hitting it again. 

The whole world unspools, as though his bones are simply wound too tight and need to be unraveled. The pain is there, but it is further away than before and John finds he exists beneath it; he is more than the ache that will not let him forget that he is broken, and a wound that does not want to heal. 

It does, though. Heals. John is confined to Flint’s quarters, mostly. He sweats through too many fevers and spends day and night in Flint’s bed. It is impossible to climb into a hammock, and John has already been sleeping in his bunk for so long by the time he comes back to himself that there is no point in arguing he should not.

It is impossible to stop his skin from crawling. 

John has already wanted Flint for so long by the time he coaxes John’s thighs gently apart and presses his mouth to his cunt that there is no breath in his lungs to refuse. 

Even if there were words in him, John would not be able to find them; he is on fire. It is easier to forget the heat in his missing limb when Flint is stoking it elsewhere— mouthing at John until he is trembling. 

Mouthing at John until  _ Flint  _ is trembling. 

Fucking him until they both forget the empty places in themselves; John is whole, again. Flint still has a heart in chest, at least for a moment.

Then they are finished, and there is no other softness between them. 

Flint leaves John there, still breathless, tangled in the sheets and wet between his thighs. Warm, and filthy. John runs his fingers through Flint’s come and his own slick; it has been a long time since he’s been used so thoroughly. The soreness will set in soon. John welcomes it. At least it will bring up better memories than the pain in his leg. Flint doesn’t seem to take any solace in the time they spend together.

If anything he seems more furious with himself every time it happens, but he does not stop. He keeps sitting at John’s side. Keeps touching John’s face. Running a thumb over his lips, and god, John  _ aches  _ to kiss him.

Flint doesn’t. 

Flint presses his face into the curve of John’s shoulder and fucks him like he’s the one falling apart. Then he goes, and John is left behind, ears ringing and hair in tangles from Flint’s hands. John stares at the ceiling of Flint’s quarters, listening to the sound of the sea and his own ragged breathing. 

Flint only leaves marks on the inside of John’s thighs, where no one but Howell will see them.

Flint leaves marks down inside John; scar isn’t the right word.

Flint has  _ stained  _ him.

When they are talking to one another about the ship, the men, their plans, Flint is the same as always; a thousand miles away, viewed through a spyglass, reflected in a mirror. He is a stranger as much as anyone can be when they have been skin on skin, breathing the same air. When Flint has been  _ inside _ him. When they are not fucking, there is that same distance. John is grateful for it.

He has already let Flint have too much of him. He has already taken too much in turn.

Usually, Flint waits until he thinks John is sleeping to smoke. Until they were sharing space, he had not thought much of it.

John thinks about it more when he wakes up to find Flint in bed with him, the smell of smoke clinging to his skin.

His hands clinging to John.

When he shifts he can see Flint in the candlelight, staring off into nothing with his pupils blown, eyes as black as the sea. 

“You alright?” John asks, the word coming out strangled.

Flint blinks over at him, eyes glassy and shining, brows lifting in dazed surprise. 

“Oh, did I wake you? I’m so sorry, my love.”

It is a voice John has never heard; Flint’s, but layered in softness. In affection.

“No,” John says, frowning. He’s never seen Flint quite this gone, from a pipe or otherwise. “It’s— I can get up, if you like. I think I can manage the hammock now, if—”

Flint cuts him off, all languid movements, brushing John’s hair back from his face.

“No, no, just… stay with me. You know she’ll be cross with us both if you don’t get some rest,” he mumbles, sinking his fingers into John’s curls. “I’ve missed you, Thomas.”

Flint isn’t making sense, but in that moment, a hundred other things do.

When Flint kisses him, John can do nothing but open for him. It is tentative where the rest of him is often not— when he fucks John it is vicious, made to hurt them both as much as ease them. When he eats John’s cunt he keeps going until it is too much and John is choking with it.

He isn’t kissing John, now. He is kissing  _ Thomas,  _ and it is full of so much adoration that John’s throat starts to hurt. His eyes sting.

John runs his fingers through Flint’s hair. Lets him fall asleep tucked into John’s throat. 

Thinks about Thomas, and the sea, and does not sleep.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> tell me nice things


End file.
